A Vampire's Promise (4 page)

T
he alarm clock yanked me awake with a rude, annoying buzz as it always did, only this morning I wanted to throw it across the room. Knowing I would have to buy a replacement was the only thing that stopped me from putting thought into action. And then the reason for my sour mood hit me like a sledgehammer.

I had a date.

I lay back down and groaned. Putting an arm over my eyes, I prayed the previous night's events would turn out to be nothing more than wishful thinking projected into my dreams. After all, in dreams you can do anything. Even agree to go on a date with a total stranger. A gorgeous, how-soon-can-I-see-you-stripped-down-to-your-boxers stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. How could I have not gotten his name? Had I told him mine? I couldn't be sure, but I didn't think so. And it wasn't a dream. I had a date.

In the cold light of morning, all of Laycee's words about grabbing happiness where I could find it became the most idiotic claptrap I'd ever heard. I really didn't give a shit about watching TV reruns or microwave dinners. And who cared if half my bed was empty? At least I wouldn't have to worry about someone hogging the blankets. My lack of a boyfriend was my problem, not hers. And besides, I didn't really think it was a problem. Not yet anyway.

So why had I agreed to go out with the Viking? Because of a physical attraction that was off the charts? Puhleeze! That type of thing only happens in romance novels . . . doesn't it? I wanted to lay the blame for my impetuous decision on either alcohol or drugs, but as I hadn't had enough of the former and didn't do the latter, I was left with only one viable excuse. I'd had a brain seizure. One that allowed me to appear as a normal, functioning adult, when in reality I had been anything but. Yeah, the old gray matter misfiring on all levels. I groaned, and the Viking's face suddenly popped up front and center behind my eyelids, making my thigh muscles jump.

You know who I am.

I sat bolt upright. What the fuck? I had no idea where this particular voice was coming from, but it was no manifestation of mine. I had even less of a clue what it meant. I didn't know who the Viking was. I'd never seen him before last night. Hell—I'd never even fantasized about someone like him! But there was no denying the bizarre sense of déjà vu I'd felt when he'd smiled at me. Had we met before? He hadn't actually denied it when I'd asked him. Hadn't confirmed it either. So where did that leave me? Oh yeah. I had a date.

Throwing back the covers, I got out of bed and padded across the hall to the bathroom. Beneath the needle spray of a hot shower, my inner bitch woke up and offered me a solution.
Who says you have to show up?
Who indeed? I'd never been to Rosie's before, so even if the Viking went looking for me, which I very much doubted, he'd be out of luck. No one there could tell him who I was. Last night didn't need to be a disaster after all.

Stepping out of the shower, I dried off and tried to ignore my sudden pangs of guilt about intentionally standing someone up, something I'd never done before. I consoled myself with the thought that, wherever he was right now, the Viking was most likely waking up in the same frame of mind as I. Feeling a little better, I brushed my teeth and got ready for work.

It was supposed to be my day off, but I had agreed to cover for my co-worker Angela that morning. Greenley Heights is a fair-sized city and a good thirty-minute drive for me, a little longer if the Department of Transportation is out repaving potholes, a seemingly never-ending project. Nowhere near the size of Chicago or Los Angeles, it's still big enough to boast a couple of decent malls, a modern hospital, and a ten-screen multiplex movie theater. And the bookstore where Angela and I work.

I like my job because it affords me the opportunity to interact with my fellow human beings, and I get first dibs on new publications. I'm an avid reader, hence my dismay at the literary habits of guys I've dated in the past. Unfortunately the rumor mill says the folks at one of the big chains, Barnes and Noble or Books-A-Million, are looking in our direction. I'm not sure what will happen if they decide to open up a store nearby. I'm doubtful we could offer much in the way of competition. But that was the least of my worries as I got in the POS and pulled out of my driveway.

Angela brought me a berry smoothie topped with loads of whipped cream when she came in at noon. I listened sympathetically as she ranted about what an ass her ex was, an all-too-familiar subject these days. I considered getting her take on my almost date, but decided at the last minute not to. She was in full all-men-are-scum mode, and any advice she might give was hardly going to be fair and impartial. Besides, as I'd already decided not to go, it seemed redundant even to ask.

I changed my mind on the drive home.

Most people have a conscience that looks out for them. I have my inner bitch, who has an opinion about
everything.
Only sometimes it's difficult to know if she's on my side or not. I'd just cleared the city limits when she piped up, totally uninvited, and began giving me her two cents' worth about my recent behavior.

You actually agreed to go out with some guy you met in the parking lot of a seedy bar?

Yeah, I did.

I know you've been in a drought lately, man-wise, but don't you think that's kind of dumb . . . especially for you?

My inner bitch was right. It ranked as foolish behavior, and I didn't do foolish, but then she stepped over the line and pricked my vanity by asking the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

Why would he want to go out with you in the first place?

No idea whatsoever. God knows it wasn't due to my razor-sharp wit or scintillating conversation. I countered by saying the why didn't matter because I wasn't going out with him anyway. But wouldn't you know, she just had to get in one last dig.

Just as well, because guys who look like him don't go out with girls like you.

Like I said, sometimes I can't tell whose side she's on, and unfortunately I let her snotty, supercilious tone get under my skin.

Just because I didn't have impossibly gorgeous men asking me out on a regular basis was no reason to suppose it
couldn't
happen, right? I might not be a head-turner the way Laycee is, but I'm no wallflower either. I've received enough attention from the opposite sex to know that guys find me attractive, and besides, I hadn't done the asking. He had. It wasn't like I tricked him into it or anything.

What does it matter? You've decided not to go . . . haven't you?

Of course I had. Except, well, maybe it would be kind of shitty of me to just not show up. The decent thing to do would be to meet him, admit we'd made a mistake, apologize, and go our separate ways. No doubt he would be as relieved as I was, if he actually showed up. I couldn't be held responsible for his behavior, but if he
was
a no-show, then it would prove I was right about not going out with him after all. Which kinda sorta made sense in a weird way if you thought about it.

I washed my hair and took a soak in the tub, staying in the water long enough for my fingers to prune. Back in my bedroom, I stared good and hard at my reflection in the mirrored closet door. I'm sensible enough to see myself for what I am, which means I'm not that bad to look at. A C-cup may be a little on the generous side, and I wish my legs weren't quite so long, but thankfully, I've never relied on my looks to keep a guy interested. That's the job of my brain and my sarcastic tongue.

But now, for some reason, my brief interaction with the Viking had me fixated on my appearance. I reminded myself there wasn't a female on the planet who, if you stripped her down, was satisfied with the way she looked. Unless she'd paid a lot of money for it, and even that was no guarantee.

Turning away from the mirror, I told myself I wasn't going on a date, but breaking one, so it really didn't matter what I looked like. I very nearly ditched the jeans and red blouse I'd picked out in favor of baggy, gray sweats. But then good sense intervened. Personal pride dictated I look my best. Or as close as I could come to it.

H
e was waiting for me. Leaning against what, at first glance, I took to be a small boat. And he was smiling. Confidently. Yeah, this guy didn't get stood up. Ever. I slid the POS between two trucks, both equipped with tires so big, it made me think their owners had serious compensation issues. My door was being opened before the sound of the engine died.

“I'm glad you came,” the Viking said, holding out his hand to me.

Flustered by the gesture, I hesitated. The last adult male who had helped me out of a car had been my dad on the night of my senior prom. I'd been so drunk I could barely stand up, let alone walk. This was so not the same thing.

“Thank you.” I gave him my hand, noticing how cool and smooth his palm was. Strong fingers closed around mine. Exiting the POS, I was grateful I'd chosen jeans over a skirt. I've yet to master the art of sliding out of a vehicle gracefully when wearing something that doesn't cover my knees, which means the probability of flashing my panties to an unsuspecting bystander remains distressingly high.

“I thought you might have changed your mind,” he said.

“Changed my mind?”
Who me?
I could feel the burn in my cheeks. The innocence in my voice could have got me nominated for an Academy Award.

“Yeah,” he shrugged his big shoulders, “you know . . . maybe stand me up.”

I know I looked guilty, I had to, and I gave him a weak smile. Crap! Now what was I supposed to do? “Um, no . . . that never crossed my mind,” I lied.

“Good, glad to hear it.” His smile grew wider. It really was nice to look at and, I decided, not at all like that of a serial killer. “So, are you ready?”

This was my last chance to back out and tell him it had been a mistake. That I was turning him down in favor of a microwave dinner and a TV rerun. Only I realized a fundamental truth about myself. Sometimes I
am
a nice person even if I don't always think so. Damn it! He could have been the biggest jerk in the world, but I still would have shown up and gone out with him because I'd said I would.

Telling myself I could manage one drink, just to be polite, I heard myself mumble, “Uh yeah, sure,” and began walking toward the bar.

An old Brooks and Dunn hit escaped as the doors opened, the melody carried out on the warm night air. I hoped Miss Juicy wasn't working tonight. As much as I'd like to stick it to her, it wasn't going to be much fun having her eyes boring holes in my skull all night long. She'd probably spit in my drink, too.

I'd covered half the distance before I realized I was walking by myself. Stopping, I looked back over my shoulder. The Viking had resumed his position against the boat.

“What?” I immediately went on the defensive, wondering why he had stopped. Perhaps he'd changed his mind after all.

His chuckle was a low deep rumble, and I felt my face flush with embarrassment, even though he didn't sound mean or unkind. Hitching my purse farther up my shoulder, I waited, hiding behind my confusion to take a look at him as he walked slowly toward me. Take a really good look at him.

He appeared much as he had last night, except the long blond hair was neatly tied back and the body-hugging T-shirt had been replaced by a black dress shirt. Judging from the sheen, I thought it might be silk. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he'd left the collar open, giving me an excellent view of his throat. In my opinion, most men who wear a silk shirt and jeans look pretentious, but on him the clothes looked stylish and very
GQ
. Even with the boots he was wearing. They were biker boots, the kind worn by real bikers, not those pseudo wannabes dealing with a mid-life crisis by trying to recapture what they never had going on to begin with.

I checked—again—for a wedding ring, but the only jewelry I could see was a very large watch. I was willing to bet a paycheck it was a Rolex. My Viking was definitely not a good ol' boy. But also not the same guy who had walked me to my car last night. Well, he was, sort of, only now he just seemed
more so
.

I looked up as he reached me and saw his contacts doing their thing. The amazing shade of deep blue made me feel a little better, reminding me he wasn't so perfect. He was now close enough to reach out and touch me if he wanted, but instead he made sure he didn't crowd me. Any physical contact was going to be down to me.

“I had thought we might do something else.” I could hear the humor in his voice. “But if you'd prefer,” he waved a hand at the building over my shoulder, “we can stay here.”

“Ah, what did you have in mind?” I asked, retracing my steps and jumping at the chance to avoid Miss Juicy.

“A movie maybe?”

His suggestion came couched with caution, making me think he wasn't as sure of this whole date thing as he made out. I smiled. A movie was good. A movie I could handle. If nothing else, I wouldn't have to make small talk for a couple of hours, and the theater would be air-conditioned.

“Sure,” I said, “a movie sounds great.”

“So, what do you think?” he asked, with a wave of his hand.

What is it about guys and their cars? I swear there's a genetic link between mechanized horsepower and male DNA. Nevertheless, auto-moron that I am, even I could appreciate something this lovely to look at. “She's beautiful,” I told him sincerely.

I didn't need to be an enthusiast to appreciate the care and time taken to restore and maintain such a vehicle. It almost qualified as a work of art. I had no idea the year or the specific make and model, but I did know enough to recognize that “she” was from a time when Detroit was synonymous with muscle cars. She was powder blue with a cream interior, and her chrome work sparkled like a beauty pageant queen all dressed up for a night on the town. She was even wearing classic whitewalls. It was almost criminal to make her sit next to vehicles better suited to a mud rally.

“What is she?” I asked.

His face lit up like a little kid, eager to show off a new toy “A Ford Fairlane.”

“What year?” I asked, only because I know that's what you're supposed to do.

“Fifty-seven.”

Wow. He hadn't been kidding when he'd said his car was older than the POS. But despite the generosity of his comment last night, I think the Fairlane rolled off the assembly line already a classic.

“Does she have a name?” I asked, half-jokingly.

“Francine.”

Of course. What else would you call a Ford Fairlane? And I have absolutely no idea where the wave of jealousy came from, but it rolled through me with a vengeance. This was a car, for God's sake! Talk about being ridiculous. But it was nice to know the Viking had a “she” in his life that weighed a hell of a lot more than I did.

He looked at me and hesitated a fraction of a second before saying, “If you'd rather drive your own car I won't be offended.”

Now it was my turn to hesitate. Common sense said that was exactly what I should do, thereby guaranteeing I had a ride home if, for some reason, the evening went belly-up. Only the flip side of that coin was that I'd be sending the message that I was expecting the evening to be a disaster.

While it was true I had come here with every intention of telling him this was a mistake, the words hadn't made it out of my mouth. And since I'd already concluded he wasn't a serial killer, it seemed churlish to refuse to go with him. Moreover, how often was I going to get a chance to ride in such a vehicle?

He tilted his head and gave me a look that created a pocket of warmth inside me. “I promise I won't let anything happen to you.”

And he wouldn't. Don't ask me how I could be so certain; I couldn't have explained it if I'd tried, but I knew it was true. He would protect me with everything he had. I nodded, and he opened the passenger-side door for me. Francine's bench seat made me feel like I was sitting on a plush couch rather than in a car. The Viking got in the other side and then turned and looked at me.

“What kind of movies do you like?”

“Pretty much everything,” I said with a laugh, pleased that it wasn't nervous sounding. “But I'm not a great fan of musicals, I think anything with subtitles is pretentious, and slasher flicks are, for the most part, insulting.”

The silence told me I probably should have stopped after “pretty much everything.”

“Slasher flicks?”

Was he serious? The look on his face said apparently so.

“You know,” I explained, “lots of gratuitous blood and gore, with stupid D-cup bimbos running around half naked in the middle of the night chased by an axe-wielding homicidal maniac.”

Another silence, then, “D-cup?” I lifted an eyebrow. If I had to explain that, we had a serious problem. “Ah, I understand.”

He caught on quick. I like that in a man. As he turned the key in the ignition, I felt, as well as heard, Francine's engine come to life with a loud, throaty purr.

“What do you think of Quentin Tarantino?” he asked.

“Certified genius.” I grinned, unable to believe my luck. Was it possible that I wasn't the only person in a three-county radius who thought
Reservoir Dogs
was a classic masterpiece?

“Great, then let's go.”

He was about to throw the column shift into drive when I leaned over and put my hand on his arm. In all honesty, I did it without thinking, and I almost snatched my hand away at the electric thrill that jolted through me from the contact. He turned with a questioning look in his eyes.

“Don't you think, before we go anywhere, we should introduce ourselves?” I felt a little silly saying it, but I needed to know what to call him. “Gorgeous,” while completely apropos, was far too intimate for me to use out loud, and I couldn't go around calling him “Viking.”

“I'm Gabriel,” he murmured.

Hearing his name made my stomach flutter. “Like the angel?”

“Yeah . . . like the angel.” He spoke the words as if they were the punch line to an inside joke. One he wasn't going to share. Bummer.

“Pleased to meet you, Gabriel. I'm Rowan,” I paused, and my brain went into overtime trying to come up with something witty. Sadly all I could manage was, “Um . . . like the tree.”

“Yes,” he said, gifting me with a show of his incredibly sexy dimple. “I know.”

 

I didn't know that the multiplex in Greenley Heights dedicated one screen every Saturday night to a specific director and showed a notable feature. That's what you get for having no social life to speak of. Tonight it was Quentin's turn to be in the spotlight, only it wasn't
Reservoir Dogs
but
Pulp Fiction
that was being shown. Excellent second choice.

There were only a handful of patrons filling the seats, which didn't surprise me, and I didn't even think twice when I fished my glasses out of my purse once the house lights dimmed and the movie started.

“You look very studious,” Gabriel whispered, leaning toward me, “like a schoolteacher.”

I laughed self-consciously and hoped he didn't find them a turnoff. I guess he didn't because about a third of the way into the movie I felt him take my hand. And it wasn't one of those I'm-just-reaching-for-my-soda-and-your-hand-was-there-too type of moments. No, he wanted to hold my hand, and he made sure I fully understood that while also giving me the chance to slip my fingers free if I chose to. Holding my breath, I kept my hand right where it was, not exhaling until I felt those long, elegant fingers close around mine. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, and he didn't let go until the credits rolled.

“Would you like to get some coffee?” he asked as we stood in the main lobby.

Feeling wonderfully confused by his attention, I nodded. I had just been sitting in the dark holding hands with undoubtedly the most gorgeous-looking man on the planet—what girl in her right mind wouldn't want to go for coffee? At this point, I was up for almost anything if it would mean being in his company a little while longer. He grinned and reached for my hand again as we left the movie theater.

Heading toward the parking lot, I got a sudden attack of nerves, so I began running off at the mouth about other movies I liked. Grinning easily, Gabriel seemed content to let my bout of verbal diarrhea run its course, until I felt his fingers unexpectedly tighten around my hand as we came to a stop. He pulled me a little behind him, as if wanting to shield me. I stopped in mid-sentence and looked up at his face before following his gaze. It seemed Francine had gained some admirers.